


The Abandoned Experiment

by ConsultingAlchemist



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Milk, Post-Reichenbach, Science Experiments, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, Sherlock's return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 22:09:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingAlchemist/pseuds/ConsultingAlchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's "death", John finds himself unable to disturb his experiments left behind - no matter how disgusting. Post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Abandoned Experiment

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to BloodStainedFeathers over at FanFiction.net for the inspiration, and reminding to to get the milk.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson called from the floor below, her voice slightly hesitant, not wanting to disturb the man upstairs. "John, would you like a sandwich?" Her kind voice was riddled with worry, and John could easily hear all the little questions hidden in her tone that she hadn't bothered to ask aloud.

_Are you okay, John?_

_Would you like to talk about it?_

_Are you moving back in, John?_

_Have you been eating enough?_

John swallowed hard before answering, clearing his throat to make absolutely sure his voice didn't crack. "I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson." came answering call a few moments later, answering both her spoken question as well as the unspoken ones. The false strength in his own voice surprised him. "Thank you." John wasn't the least bit hungry, despite having not eaten since yesterday. Not only was he not hungry, but he had a feeling anything he did eat would end up making a reappearance sooner than expected.

John sat motionless and silent in his chair, his arms wrapped tightly around his middle, partly to fight the chill in the room, partly to try and settle his queasy insides. The familiar sitting room of his flat was uncharacteristically chilly, for he hadn't come round in weeks. With no one to bring life to the fireplace, the room had grown cold and unwelcoming. At least it was clean, he noticed as he slowly scanned the room. Mrs. Hudson hadn't let it fall into disuse and if it weren't for the cold, the space almost looked lived-in.

Except it wasn't, and the man whom he had shared this place with wasn't about to come strutting in from the landing and plop down in his chair opposite to his. No one had lived here in a long time.

John had spent the last few months at his sister's. She hadn't minded much, and hadn't bothered pressing him with questions. It was all over the news anyway, for everyone to see. John had even taken advantage of her fridge that was well stocked with every variety of alcohol under the sun. It was so good to forget sometimes, but sometimes it was necessary to remember. Which was why he was here, sitting in his old chair, the fabric stiff and cold. Unused.

He had ordered Mrs. Hudson to rent the flat space out to someone else, and had even started packing up all his things, but she wouldn't have it. She hadn't even approached him about the rent, which made him feel slightly guilty. He promised himself he'd pay her for it as soon as he found a steady job again. He also made a mental note to thank her, because it was great to have everything here to come back to once in a while. Nothing had been disturbed since he'd returned most of his belongings to their places, the flat left in its usually messy and chaotic state, as if the occupants might return later to straighten it up before their next case.

John raised himself up from his chair, which had only just started to warm underneath him. He needed to do something, keep his mind busy with something, _anything else_. He felt himself sway a bit, and grabbed his cane to support himself. He was lightheaded, and his stomach seemed to shrivel up inside him. He needed some way to calm it, calm his mind before he passed out on the floor.

_I'll make tea_ , he concluded, hobbling out of the sitting room and into the kitchen _Nice_ , calming tea. He limped towards the door, passing the kitchen table still cluttered with papers. He tore his eyes away when his gaze caught some legal papers with the name _James Moriarty_ printed neatly at the top, partially obscured by a package of nicotine patches that had been placed atop the stack of paperwork. He stopped in front of the stove, one hand clutching his cane tightly while the other gripped the counter for extra support. The tiles were ice cold under his shaking fingers.

He reached for the kettle, making a face of disgust as he peered inside. John wrinkled his nose as the all too familiar smell of blood filled his nostrils. It was human and congealed, resting at the bottom of the kettle, looking rather sticky, though of course John didn't touch it to confirm his suspicions. Without a second to ponder its odd presence in his kettle, he placed it back on the cold burner of his stove that hadn't been turned on in months.

_It's an experiment!_ He heard Sherlock's voice inside his head, and it almost coaxed a smile out of him, but the sound of his former flatmate's voice (even if it was only a memory in his head) still brought him pain. He didn't know exactly if that was the reason the blood was there, but it seemed the most likely answer. So, he turned and shuffled slowly back to his chair in the sitting room, leaving the kettle exactly where he'd found it.

No matter how much he craved the calming warmth of a cup of tea, John couldn't bear to disturb one of Sherlock's little experiments. In his head, he could see the situation playing out in his head if did decide to clean it. Sherlock, bursting into the kitchen with that determined expression on his face that only came when he was working on a case. Sherlock as he opened the kettle, only to find it spotlessly clean. _John!_ He could hear him shout clearly in his mind. _Why did you take the blood out of the kettle. It was an experiment, John!_ This, of course, would be followed by a slightly sarcastic remark from himself, which would make Sherlock furious, but would also bring a smile to the man's face. One of those rare smiles that usually only came when there was a murderer on the loose.

John lowered himself back into his chair, lying his cane beside it as he did. The scene still played out inside his head, his mind focusing on that smile, and he was very nearly convinced that it was real, and the last few months had just been a nightmare. His hands shook and he knew he wasn't quite ready to move back in yet. He promised himself he'd move back in once he was able to bring himself to clean the bloody kettle.

…

It was many months later, over a year, and John found himself once again back in his own flat. The flat he didn't live in, nor paid any rent on, yet still held most of his possessions. He sat in his chair silently observing the room, as he did every time he came around. He found it wasn't getting any easier, and he knew he still wasn't ready.

That's when he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

"I said no thank you, Mrs. Hudson!" he groaned, not liking the feeling of her worrying over him, bringing him food, trying to get him to talk. He didn't like to see her worry, especially when he was equally concerned for her. "Just please, let me have a moment to myself, thanks." That's when he noticed, straining his ears for her reply, that the footsteps on the stairs were moving far too fast. They were much too quick for someone of Mrs. Hudson's age, especially with her bad hip. He turned his head towards the door to the landing to see who could possibly be coming to see him.

John nearly gasped, and would've if it weren't for the immense shock that had taken over his body. His best friend and his flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, strode unceremoniously through the doorway, as if he'd only popped out for a second. He stopped for a brief moment in the doorway, his grey-blue eyes widened slightly, as if mildly surprised to find John sitting there. He gave him that smile he remembered, the 'John, it's a triple murder!' grin, before it fell from his face, which had grown serious.

"Oh, hello, John." He said simply, and if he hadn't been certain he'd been hallucinating, he'd have felt like punching the man. Giving John the smallest of smiles, Sherlock held up a plastic bag with his right hand. "Uh, I got the milk." Taking in the gobsmacked look on John's face, Sherlock fell silent. For the first time he could recall, the consulting detective was utterly lost as to what he should say, what he should do. Most friends would probably hug, hold each other tight for a few moments to make up for the time apart. He was Sherlock, though, who did not show any feelings, and nobody expected them from him. He had brought the milk for this exact purpose, a kind of apology without being all sentimental, which was so very unlike him. Bringing him the long awaited milk had almost been an inside joke, but now it represented so much more.

"I'll just go put this in the fridge." Sherlock continued after a moment of silence "How about some tea?" John just sat there, too confused to do anything else. He just stared, marveling at the clarity of his own imagination. For he was sure this was just an image from his mind, an impossible fantasy. Sherlock was dead, he was certain. There was no hope left in the former army doctor, not anymore.

Standing there awkwardly for a moment, rocking on his heels, Sherlock finally made his way into the kitchen. John was finally pulled to reality when he heard Sherlock made of muffled cry of surprise and disgust as he went to put the kettle on in the other room.

"John!" he shouted, and John heard the kettle crash and clang as Sherlock dropped in back onto the stove-top "What the hell have you been doing while I was away?"

Away. He said it like he'd gone to spend the weekend out of town. Not that John believed he was back – no, not _really_ \- because it was impossible. He'd seen him die. It pained him to remember it, but he was sure. His mind had finally snapped, and the result was an all too real hallucination of his best friend. It was cruel.

"You've let the blood spoil, John!" he continued, peering around the corner to look at John, who still sat in his chair. "It was an experiment!" That reaction surprised John, but it was just so _Sherlock_ , resembling too much the scenario that had played out inside his head a year ago. The two locked eyes, and it finally struck John. It was real.

Sherlock was back.


End file.
